


The Prince Assassin

by Ameliapoand



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Aggression, Assassin's Creed - Freeform, Attempted Sexual Assault, Fights, Gen, Princes & Princesses, Royalty
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-18
Updated: 2014-05-18
Packaged: 2018-01-25 12:46:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1649108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ameliapoand/pseuds/Ameliapoand
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Forget this face."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prince Assassin

**Author's Note:**

> TW for attempted rape: is NOT explicit or detailed in any way.

The village’s tavern bustled with mid-afternoon excitement, its denizens prattling on about the magnitude of their lives at a noise level dangerously approaching deafening. Men grouped together at tables, shaking with fits of laughter while drunkenly sloshing down their beer and liquor, allowing the beverages to stain their tunics, which only started up another round of chuckles. 

Meanwhile, a hooded stranger rested alone in his corner, his dark cloak billowing in the what wind which seeped through the windows behind him. With his head bowed, he cupped the glass of amber liquid before him, bringing the cup to his lips - clearly abstaining from the norm of civilization around him. He sipped his drink slowly, carefully almost, inconspicuously rolling his tongue over his teeth before frowning and swallowing its contents.

"I need more beer!" hollered a man from a particuarly crowded table. His friends cheered in agreement, and a serving girl reluctantly shuffled over to him a few moments later. The man was dressed rather highly; in an outfit of woven fabric that resembled the ones at the palace, except less than. He offered her his glass which she took away, only to replenish it and bring it back to him. Her feminine features were clouded with distaste, the delicate arches of her eyebrows rising while her long, pale hair cascaded around them. The man was obviously oblivious to her repulsion as he accepted his drink again, proceeding to eye her physique appreciatively.

"Hey darlin’," he murmured. Her face met his with an even greater level of repulsion than earlier, but she remained frozen in place. "Meet me at my house later this evening. I have something I want to show you." He grinned devishly after winking at her, calculating the way she finally turned away from him. 

Once more, his friends encouraged him further, their exclamations turning into sheer yelling when he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her towards him, ignoring her attempts at escape and kissing her on the mouth. The young woman tried pushing away from him, but he merely laughed, his objective clearly no longer one of liquor and alcohol, but now of her flesh body and the superficial pleasure she would provide him, consensual or not. 

She continued to struggle against him, but she was no match for his strength as he blatantly overpowered her, his body size twice the size of hers as he pinned her arms down by her sides, and attempted to drag her into the back room.

"Stop, stop!" cried the girl.

No one responded to her pleading; the rancorous crowd continued to cheer on the man, though several spectators silently harbored disgust in their faces.

"Someone, please! Help me!" The look on her face was one of pure terror, and yet she continued to fight against his hands, now greedily roaming over her body.

"Awh, c’mon. Why do you have to be that way," he whispered in her ear. A shiver rippled through her body and her knees gave way, but he pulled her to her feet, half-way dragging her as the dust on the ground collected on her dress; a helpless lamb against a lion.

Just as he was about to cherish his victory, a hand came down upon the man’s forearm. He glanced up, surprised to see the black hood of the stranger previously lurking in the corner of the tavern. The hooded figure quietly shook his head, hate brewing in his feverishly green eyes.

"What’s your problem," the drunkard demanded. His tongue was thick with intoxication, and his breath stank of beer.

"Let her go." The stranger’s voice took on a steely tone, ringing out hard and clear.

"I don’t think you know who I am."

"I do, and it means nothing."

This surprised the man, represented by the outrage suddenly shadowing his face. His body stiffened a little and he stood taller than before, his words less slurred and more regal sounding.

"You, sir, have made a grave error. I am Duke Evers-"

Before he could finish, the hooded figure lashed out, his hardened fist connecting with the jaw of the duke, sending him sprawling to the ground. The girl, free of her captor, cried out in fear and exited through the tavern doors. Furious, the duke rose to his feet and rubbed his face, taking small but measured steps towards his attacker. They were almost equivalent in size, though the hooded man was more lean and predator like than the other.

"Big mistake."

They glared wordlessly at each other before the cloaked stranger turned his back on him; an honorable act of resignation. He attempted to walk away, but the duke’s hands reached out, grasping ahold of his cloak and ripping it off in a downwards motion. The man froze in place; stiff and tense, suddenly comparable to a stone statue. The duke’s snarl changed into one of satisfaction, which bitterly dissolved when the stranger coldly turned to face him once more.

He was young in age, his green eyes resonating an aura of maturity that far surpassed his age level. Ebony hair brushed against the tips of his shoulders; the ends of the strands wisping into boyish curls that somehow agreed with the rest of his masculine features, such as the square of his jaw. His face was brilliantly smooth, disregarding the thin scar that ran from his right eyebrow, across the bridge of his nose, all the way down to his left nostril. Someone had taken a sword to this man’s face.

Recognition dawned upon the duke’s face, and his eyebrows formed a tight line in the middle of his forehead. “You’re Solomon Savaric. You’re the king’s son.”

"I was."

"You do realize that you’re being looked for, right? The king has a pile of gold waiting for anyone who turns you in. He’s condemned you as a traitor to the country." The duke continued to stroke his jaw, absentmindedly rubbing the stubble there.

Solomon thought for a moment, opening his mouth only to close it again. “Don’t follow me,” he murmured, whisking through the door.

He fastened his hood again, ingeniously slipping into the movement of the crowd in the street, blending in with the civilians around him. Solomon continued to follow the patterns of traffic, past the general shop; he even managed to slip by a cluster of guards, until he disappeared into the heart of the city and was nowhere to be found.


End file.
